


Context Much Needed

by Anonymous



Series: In Context [3]
Category: Don't Starve (Video Game)
Genre: M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Mild Smut, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, One sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-06-26
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:41:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,358
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24927841
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The consequences of the Constant ensures that nothing is ever easy.
Relationships: Maxwell/Wilson (Don't Starve)
Series: In Context [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1530263
Kudos: 28
Collections: Anonymous





	Context Much Needed

It was the smell that tipped him off.

Obviously it had also been the avoidance and odd looks and the sheer fact that he himself had gathered up a bag full of supplies the moment he had recognized the initial reactions, but it was the scent that had followed him.

He wasn't in full cycle yet, just the very beginning, treading that edge. The flutters, almost cramping in his belly, the heat in his chest that crept in hot flashes over his skin, and that start of manic energy filling his head were only the signs, not the actual mixture just yet. 

Wilson was not particularly looking forward to this one. The last had been spent with more pacing, more marking up the territory of his small camp, hissing and spitting and aching, his primal senses fighting a war against his logically sound mind. This would be an exhausting time for him.

But now, today, that scent had followed him.

Sickly sweet, bitterly spiced and tainted, that raw grating feeling of _wrongness_ , and his logical thoughts came to the conclusion that it must be a more symbiotic thing, scratch his back and he'll scratch the others sort of deal.

His lesser side, however, preened and groomed itself at the lingering thought that, perhaps, he actually drew in attention for once.

That was purely untrue, but even he knew that he had suitors; Wilson was not blind, and he's bit his tongue and turned away at the vague advances, but that did not mean he ignored them. It was something else, to know he was being pursued in that way, even if by those he was trying not to find attraction to.

His more primal instincts, however, grew excited. A beta was not usually the one to have an omegas attention, after all.

Which was why he was where he was now, on the cusp of a full throttle cycle, feeling it quicken inside him, through him, feeling that cocktail of hormones and pheromones and biology gear itself ready. The scent had thrown off his usual spiel, and he knew now that this one was going to be a rough ride.

Usually he had a mixture, the usual beta cycle, not quite a heat and not quite a rut; it was only when his body was at peak fertility, after all, nothing more or less. He'd toughen those out, pace and whittle away his time, and spend much of it in the tent, distracting himself with carnal pleasure of varying sorts. It tired him out, let him sleep much of the cycle away, and then he'd finish up and be able to think clearly once more.

Sometimes it was bad enough to go to the pigmen, sweaty and ashamed and yet trying to woo anyone who'd give him the time of day, and for the most part the pigmen were not unwelcome folk. He still remembered a few of their names, and they had always been enthusiastic enough to exhaust him out early.

But now? Now there was a thick scent in the air, thick and heady and sweet on the tongue, the hidden sickly taste of it pricking at the threads of his brain, and it was omega and inviting and it made him absolutely _tremble_ in the face of it.

Worse, that he knew who it was that was sending him those signals. And then, worse still, that it mixed so well to his own bitter tinged scent. 

The shadows corrupted, changed, and he knew something was vaguely different now. He may not smell quite right anymore, but it was still sparking something heavy in him and it was getting harder to ignore.

Wilson paced, back and forth, jaw grit tight and internally flailing as he fought himself on what to do. The heat in him had changed, his very scent mixing and shifting gears, and now he was well on his way to a harsh rut more than anything else.

All because a certain omega couldn't mind himself properly. 

The fact that it was all so, so _inviting_ , that was what was getting to him. And, rationally, Wilson knew perfectly well that he'd not be able to fight it off forever. Ruts, bad ones like what he got, could take so much longer than the usual cycles, and if he didn't relieve himself properly then he was in for a rough few days, perhaps even a week.

The longer he was away from main camp, the less help he could offer everyone there. 

In the end, what spurred him on was a cluster mix of logically arguing and his own imbalanced hormones pushing him on. It was getting unbearably hot, he was on the cusp of tipping, and he'd rather not be out of camp for longer than necessary when like this.

He didn't do ruts often, but the ones he did remember were full of frustration and anxiety and a musky taste to his scent, thicker and harder to ignore. If he didn't act now, he may end up in his tent and not get any relief at all! 

So off he trudged, a bit light headed and hissing in air as he followed the trail.

Considering who it was, he should be thankful that it wasn't a long one.

Usually, he knew, instinctively and logically, an omega was a bit harder of a catch. There should be a chase, a preening display and attention and all sorts of polite foundation to set it all up.

Then again, Maxwell was not quite like any other omega. The Throne had seen to that.

And, from the scent itself, Wilson taking it in with one deep breath and feeling it send rushes to his brain, wheezing out an exhale as his blood boiled, it seemed like the other man had been fighting off a rather heavy cycle this time around. Usually Maxwell went off far, long before his cycle started, and only came back with the faintest of residue scent left; not enough for imagination.

But this? This was in season, and extremely potent. 

If it was enough to kick start his own rut cycle, then it was a strong one, and very much underway. From the smell of it, Wilson could almost guess that its been going for at least a few days, long shifts for an omega.

It did irk him, to not hear the usual welcoming calls, or even hear a damn thing. Another side effect inflicted upon the deranged omega, and something he did feel a bit disappointed on.

It would have been nice, to properly chase down and bond with someone so willing to him. Hearing of such romantic stories when he had been young sort of made things look a bit lesser in reality.

But, now that he was out here, Wilson couldn't just let himself leave it all be. For one, he's already taken the first step; for two, the scent was already affecting his biology, and his heart was loud in his ears and the heat in him was even hotter, a deep pressure layering itself down. He hadn't quite tipped yet, but was edged, and his trousers were becoming a hint uncomfortable. He wouldn't be able to abandon it now.

Finding the owner of the scent was another thrum of disappointment; Maxwell stood stiff, arms crossed, a tree at his back and looking off with a scowl set to his face, impatience and frustration and that sickly sweet tang to the air, a pheromone that sent shivers up Wilsons back.

He at least didn't whistle to get his attention; Wilson would not stoop himself like that for this man, omega or not, and if the other man wasn't going to perform then neither would he.

"What...what do you think you're doing out here?"

It came out rougher than he intended, deepened and growled low with the slurry of chemicals setting themselves in his body, his brain, and his hands curled into fists and he fought the shivering _want_ in him, that sickly tug in his gut.

His voice made the other man actually flinch, jerking pitch black eyes to him and glowering, face twisted into an odd mixture of negative emotions, before Maxwell haggardly cleared his throat, adjusting his suit jacket as he finally addressed him.

"Isn't it obvious?" There was no expected sneaky grin, no smirk, only a harsh scowl and tense form, at odds to the scent that wafted off of him, tempting and thick and too damn _welcoming_. "You're a smart man, Higgsbury; use that brain of yours and figure it out."

He sounded snippy, unpleasant and unhappy and all sorts of frustrated; Wilson wavered a moment, caught off guard with mixed reactions. A part of him wanted pursuit, was more aggressive and now far too edged to think very clearly; the other was a differing instinctive emote, clearly hearing upset, hearing distress in the vaguest of forms, and wanting to act out on that.

He wasn't bonded yet, and his instinctive drive was far too willing.

His steps were stiff, a hard frown as he watched the other mans face, tried to catch his eye and ending unsuccessfully as Maxwell looked away at his advancement.

It was horridly mixed signals, the smell to be so welcoming and the actual person to be so offhandedly offensive. 

And, with this man! Of all people, it was Maxwell! Why couldn't Wes have seeked him out?

Because, he knew, because Wes was more polite and paid attention and didn't want to hurt anyone, had the sense to understand. Wes would have done this correctly, and he certainly wouldn't have preyed upon a cusped Wilson or have advanced when he himself was in the middle of an omega cycle. Wes would have done this right.

His feet brought him a bit closer, looking up at the taller man, who finally turned a stern, masked gaze down to him. They were closer now, and Wilson could smell him, he could smell _him_ , Maxwell's very aura, thick and trembling and sweet, poisoned honey and tempting and inviting and all out of sorts _wrong_. 

He stared, taking it all in with each shuddery hiss, sucking in that smell that made him tremble and blood hot and feel as if he could hardly contain himself. Maxwell himself was stiff, tense, but he could see his every breath, inhales from his thin chest, the way his nostrils flared and his teeth bared, jaw grit tight as he took in Wilsons scent himself.

It sent a hard knot of twisted heat through him, drifting through his chest and then teasing the edge, to see the omegas eyes drift, grow hazy and eyelids fall a smidgen lower, the knowledge that he was being scented, being considered.

The hint of color in the mans cheeks threw him off a bit, knowing he was already flushed and heady and too much ready, hands in tight fists, watching, waiting.

"Well." Maxwell's voice was a bit thicker now, almost drowsy as he watched him with half lidded eyes, pitch black growing murky, his stance still stiff and sharp, the cloud of pheromones about them somehow becoming heavier. He exhaled slowly, the warm touch of air against Wilson's face making his heart beat a bit more hectic, a choked feeling rising in his chest. "What do you think, pal? Good enough?"

It was, very suddenly, the right thing to say.

Maxwells omega scent invaded his senses, as he took that last step, buried his face to the man chest and inhaled deeply, hands going to grip fast at the suit jacket, and the balance shifted as the other man leaned back against the tree, a low wobbling hiss of a sound, surprise and yet-

He couldn't get his words out, choked thick as heat burned hot inside him, everywhere through him as he pressed close, clung tight, and taking in that warm scent, sweet and a hint bitter and spicy, everywhere around him, engulfing and heady and soaking into him, but for a second his logic blanked out and all Wilson could do was hold fast and take it all in with each hissing, shuddering breath.

He's never really had anyone so inviting to him. No ones ever actually offered.

It was a terrible thing, to have this man, an omega of all things, to be doing so, but the mixed signals were a confusing mush in his brain and it was all coming to head as his biology started its course.

There wasn't much of a response at first, leveling his distress a bit high as he breathed, accustomed himself more personally, pressing himself close, still for now, and then Maxwell finally moved.

Those hands went to his shoulders, a light, restrained grip, and it wasn't quite the right reaction but it was hesitated and unknown and so _fucking softly done_ that it rumbled instinct through him and Wilson found himself out of his head.

His hands pressed against the man, then dragged to his sides, feeling the fabric and curve of him, and he huffed out a sound, deep within his throat, as he turned his face to the side, pressing himself even closer, heavier.

His own pheromones were thicker now, responding and it was only the vaguest of a mark but marking was what it was, touching and holding and putting bodily pressure forward, pressing himself close in physical contact, mixing his own scent.

He hadn't dropped yet, shivering under the waiting, but Wilson hissed in a breath, enthralled with that scent as he closed his eyes, as it blanketed him, filled him up.

Enough, sweetly sick enough, to shift his legs and rub himself against the man, pressed to his thigh, and it wasn't lost on him that Maxwell had widened his stance, using the tree as a backrest and spreading his legs a bit to accept him. He was well and truly aroused now, shuddering at the friction, the pressure, and yet he was hesitantly patient.

Slowly dragging himself against that delicious friction, taking in gulps of air and that heady arousing scent, drinking it all in like a drowning man, and Wilson gasped low huffs, still touching, nuzzling his face against the mans bony thin chest as marking, as asking, waiting and trying to ask for permission.

It was a few moments, silence stretching as he slowly, teasingly rubbed himself forward, tasting that scent and feeling it flow through the folds of his brain, but finally something happened.

Those hands on his shoulder moved, drifted lightly, pressing touch down his shoulder blades, around his back as if to draw him closer, and then there was a low, almost answered rumble of sound.

It was quiet, a fragile sound, a testing purr even, as if hesitantly made and not fully remembered, but it was there and accepting and suddenly Wilson heaved in a breathe and felt himself drop.

The anchor in his gut fell hard, tugged through him a shuddering hissing sound as he pressed his face close, and then rose up to bury against the man's collarbone now, hidden by suit and jacket and tie, finally able to press his nose to the man's exposed throat, that one bit of unclothed flesh, and the sudden warmth, the soft heat and touch and the _very_ scent of the man, it was-

It was so much more than he could have imagined.

It was a gasp, through him, pressing even closer as he clawed a hold to the mans sides, shuddered as he grinded himself against a welcoming body, mouth falling open and heaving more of that scent through him, overwhelmed by strong omega scent, flooding his beta brain and causing it to be too much.

Maxwell held him patiently as he huffed, as his legs became jelly, as his orgasm tore through him and left him gasping for air, strength gone and sagging against a much thinner, bonier body. His trousers were shamefully sticky, damp now, but all that his brain could muster was that deliciously comforting scent that kept shrouding him with every breath, the bony stable arms and the thin chest that breathed against him.

For a few moments, that warm tug in him was stilled. 

If he was more stable minded, he'd know the why of it; as beta, he was differing. Who he was, was not on par biologically with other castes. He wasn't even a high tier either, and that made some difference.

An alpha was much harsher, long lasting, long going, and quick refractory periods; the high fertility called for it, and the health of the individual made it even more so.

Omegas were slower, just as long lasting and even more so going, even more pushy to keep at it, and their preparing and preening and dazzling made sure to show off such talents and the eye for detail. 

Wilson was neither of those, and had long made the choice of not giving a damn. His biology may have more sway over him at times, but he was stubborn and was more likely to refuse its wants. He suffered for it, but that was his choice and that?

That was what meant more to him than any release.

Those thoughts, those choices came back to him as his brain restarted, as he came back to himself, more fully clear and not as swayed now, not as entranced. A part of him swirled in a goop of pleasure still, tempting, wanting more, more and again, a primal urge twisted and evolved from the original sense of procreation to something more carnal pleasure, and he felt limp, drained in the other man's arms, breathing in slowly as he dared to indulge in that line of thought.

And then Maxwell drew in a breath of air, a low, rumbled chirping chuckle, faintly snide almost, pleased and yet not, a cat caught with cream its body could not process.

"Really, Higgsbury?"

It wasn't much, two words, and yet the insinuation was all there, and with it the sudden rising of his own willpower.

Falling under the sway of his biology was never something Wilson enjoyed, a lack of control almost that left him with a disgusted feeling set in him for long after. What he did with pigmen left him in much the same, a sheer disappointment that he couldn't even control himself from that path of action.

As if he wanted to spend his time fucking pigs, drawing pleasure from them! It left him just as bad, sitting in a tent and using his own two hands, not quite reaching it but at the very least exhausting himself! It was something he hated, shamed and bitter that his biology was what it was, and now look at him!

He'd just come undone in the arms of someone he very much still disliked! Hell, he'd been _scent marking_ the man, and pressed close like this Wilson could smell himself, rubbed together in foggy odors and heady thick sexual arousal.

Worse, to know he wasn't even finished yet. He may have just had a moment, but cycles were not done by just one little act and, surrounded and breathing this scent, this sickly sweet scent that drew in and tugged longingly at his insides, and partly outside, to say he was being unaffected would be a lie.

But, really, it was far worse, to have his face buried against the other man and to scent him with every breath, tasting that omega arousal as a film on his tongue, hips pressed close together and feeling that mild discomfort from his trousers, that tense feeling from the one he had solicited.

And, he had drawn pleasure from it! From Maxwell, of all people!

It was the worst of mixed emotions, feeling, and yet each breath he took was attempting to shroud him in that sickness once more. 

And, damn it all, Maxwell shifted just the slightest bit, and he felt the man's chest move, inhale deep, nose pressed into Wilsons hair, feeling the man rest his face on the top of his head and breath him in, and that hum rose up, thrummed from the thin chest he was pressed so intimately against. It rumbled low, soft, a content, wanting omega purr, an instinctive sharp prick in Wilsons mind as he heard it, the almost predatory sound, and he tensed, tried to take shallow breaths, tried to banish that scent from himself.

In his mind, his will was already made up. It remembered himself, and he would not be crushed by his own damn biology. This was his choice to make, not his reproductive organs and all that wasteful primal urges.

His body was reacting to it, having come around, and the afterglow was faded now, leaving him his strength back, and his, ah, his arousal. Pressed like this, still jutted close and having pressure, and it felt, felt-

It felt nice, all things considering. Warm body heat, and pressured touch, still as it was, and he was half hard already, just from this.

With an omega, a beta was in for a long, if pleasurably exhausting, time.

With a deranged, twisted corrupt omega with lacking remembrance of social cues, a beta such as himself would be hard pressed for a long, long while.

He'd like it, Wilson knew. God, he'd love it all, every moment of pleasure and relief and the fatigue that came sweeping in afterwards, it's been so long since he had a partner to his cycles, so long since anyone had touched him in that specific way, and he'd bask in an omegas affections, he knew he would.

But Wilson wasn't going to.

He took a few more breaths, let his eyes close as he partook in the scent, in that lovely tempting sick smell, feeling those omega purrs and knowing he was wanted, right now, that right now out of everyone else Maxwell had walked about his little camp and had flagged him down with welcome arms, even if a bit hesitant and clumsy as it was. He indulged, for a few seconds more, hands tightening their grasp and soaking it all in, letting his primal sense at least have this take away, letting himself get lost for just a few seconds more.

And then he steeled himself, eyes still closed, a tight grip. When his voice broke through him, it was haggard and roughened and thick, still woozy from the experience but firmly determined.

"No."

One word, and he swallowed thickly, felt the sheer confusion lace through the man he was clinging to, and with that Wilson pulled himself away, took a steady step back.

He didn't meet resistance, perhaps due to the minor surprise on the other mans face, but he looked up, met eye contact, those pitch black, shiny eyes, a hint dulled still. It surprised him a bit, to still see Maxwell taking in level breathes, still scenting him, still tasting him even, but he slowly shook his head, maintained eye contact.

It was determination, and that minor flow of anger, gritting his teeth as his internal frustrations raged, as he still held that hard on, as he still knew he was in for a rough rutting session, but his willpower was more than that.

Angry, frustrated he may be, but Wilson made his own choices.

There could be words, in the air, but if he spoke he was more likely to get too much scent, too much within him, and instead it was with a different tone Wilson reacted.

His hiss was different, not at all the huffs or noises he'd usually simplify himself to, and with that he took another step back.

Maxwell tilted his head, watched him darkly, silent.

It sent a shiver up his spine, this time different; there was something about omega behavior that got to him, and while odd Maxwell was no different. 

Another shaky "no" escaped him, shaking his head as he grit his teeth, and this time a growl, low, frustrated, and it was prickling inside him, that insistent tugging, that heat, his cycle now chugging along and tempting him, and his body itched to touch itself, a sore, aching feeling, feeding off itself as he winced at the dampness of his trousers. He'd need to clean these, after his cycle ran him to the ground.

It finally seemed to get through to the other man that he was being rejected, and Maxwell's dark eyes watched him, glittered shiny dull, an almost dangerous feeling. Wilson tensed himself, just incase, a feeling of foreboding and paranoia, not at all mixing well with his aroused state, but he kept his mouth shut, breathing shallow and empty and forced himself to ignore it all.

He chose what to do with himself, not his fucking biology, and certainly not Maxwell.

And then the other man straightened up, turned his gaze away as he crossed his arms, face set into a snarled glower, and the frustration, restraint was coming off him in waves.

For a moment, he seemed to struggle, Wilson watching the man swallow and sway side to side, avoiding eye contact, as if the words were right on the tip of his tongue.

And then Maxwell swung around, turned his back to him with a sharp, hissing deep sound, oddly sharp and twinged, irritable, and walked away.

It wasn't storming away, or even stomping his feet, but the man's shoulders were tense and he didn't even give a glance back, disappearing among the trees, taking the thickest cloud of scent along with him.

For a moment, Wilson stood still, alert, not taking even a single breath as he listened, waited.

He had expected a more violent reaction to rejection, especially from an omega such as Maxwell. 

It was all mixed signals, he thought, back in the depths of his mind, and then Wilson shook himself, shoving those thoughts way. Back to his little tent with him, and to stay for awhile.

Maybe, without Maxwell hanging around and marking his scent everywhere, maybe it'll leave him early.

Wilson could only hope.


End file.
